The Kwinkan

by Mudrooroo

  ‘Well, the tape’s running and I have to start somewhere. No, I have started, got to continue. Well, it was over a decade ago, at the end of one of those boom periods for which the economy of Australia is noted, I found myself at the end of my tether, or almost, for the recession had condemned me to seek out some quick, profitable venture to stave off not bankruptcy, this is in the strictest confidence—I really will have to vet this tape—but imprisonment. It was then after a too hasty deliberation that I decided to cash in my last favour with the heir to the then Premier of Queensland, a man, who did not like being reminded of old obligations. He made a quick phone call and shifted me as problem over to the head of his party. He greeted me with a cold smile which in rosier times might have warned me to keep on guard; but times were tough and so I listened to his plan to present me as a candidate in the forthcoming federal elections in an electorate in which I knew no one and no one knew me.

  ‘He assured me that the seat was as safe as houses and that my election was in the bag. Some of the old guard had been caught with their hands in the till and thus new blood was needed. I was supposed to be a pint of that new blood; but, from the very beginnings, ugly rumours hissed through the corridors of power that I was an upstart who, apart from party donations, had little political clout and no savvy. These rumours came to my ears, but the political bosses laughed them away. It happened to all new chums, they declared, and added it was a way the wheat was sifted from the chaff. I accepted their reassurances, as I was certain that I did know politicians and how they conducted themselves in government and towards industry. In fact, I felt that I was just as good or as bad as the best or worst of them and could further my interests with much more discretion. So much for my naivety.

  ‘Next came a solemn interview I had with the horrible Prime Minister of our country who had seized power by ruthlessly splitting a coalition of the conservative forces and by establishing an alliance of convenience with a party masquerading as the friends of the poor and the afflicted. There were no problems here for me. The PM was an old school chum who believed that the public school tie knotted around his withered neck gave him the right to plunder at will. I hoped that he did not remember that, well, I was one of an unselect group who had gained entry into the school through scholarship. He didn’t let on. My powerful, rich, old school chum greeted me with an outstretched hand and a warm smile to balance out the ice in his wary eyes. “You see,” he exclaimed, “we never forget our friends.” He let my hand drop. “You shall be an asset to the party, ministerial material. New blood is needed, new blood,” he exclaimed ...

  ‘ “I still have to get myself elected,” I replied peevishly, thinking that my business mates were paragons of honesty compared to this lot. Still, this old school chum owed me a favour. On many occasions I had helped him with assignments, though I doubted that this was something he might wish to remember.

  ‘ “Never you mind; never you mind,” he babbled in the nebulous fashion which was the political gift of Queensland to the rest of Australia. “A formality, a formality,” he burbled, flashing me his false teeth and even rubbing his hands together. I stared at him as he chattered on. “No worries, no worries, a safe seat and you’ll have every chance of taking it with an increased majority. You are what we have been looking for. Intelligent, charming and, and pleasant. Why, with your rugged looks, you’ll capture the ladies. You’re lean and hard and these’ll add to your appeal in the bush. You’ll see ... You’re in already ... but you must understand the situation, understand what you may and must not say. Simple, I assure you. First past the post too.”

  ‘His assurances and the classic buttering-up job failed to ease my doubts. I thought my leanness perhaps bulged with malnutrition. I attempted a warm smile of complicity which fell away as I recalled that a cartoonist on the Courier had already caricatured me as one of the five horsemen of the apocalypse of recession. It did not help matters when I recalled that our beloved Prime Minister had been placed in the lead. Grimly, I listened to his advice ...

  ‘ “And above all, no politics! No politics! Leave ’em to the Opposition. They always try to drag in politics and come a cropper. And above all don’t get involved; don’t get carried away by the side issues. Remember, it is a rural electorate, and the voters are only interested in one issue, and one only: the farm subsidy! Wool prices, wheat sales, land rights, the kangaroo menace—ignore them. The farm subsidy is not only to be continued, but increased—adjusted against the rate of inflation. That’s all you need to know. Let your opponents wallow in the swamps of generality, stick to the farm subsidy. Do you know anything about the farm subsidy?”

  ‘ “My God,” I exclaimed, “I’ve always been involved in urban property. Why, I’ve never heard of it before. Should I bone up on it?” I queried.

  ‘ “No, no,” the PM said hastily. “That won’t be necessary. We’ll get a few set speeches for you and some questions and answers to read through. These’ll be enough. Just stick to ’em and you can’t go wrong. And above all-don’t improvise! Don’t get carried away with personalities or general views. Remember commit yourself to nothing, except of course, the farm subsidy. Commitment is dangerous and a threat to the integrity of the party. You know, between ourselves, don’t take it personally, old chap, I’m not reproaching you, but there have been rumours, but ...” and he smiled knowingly.

  ‘My face had long gone numb in the mist of his waffling. The PM was renowned for concealing his ineptitude behind a fog of generalities, a trait he had inherited from his predecessor; and he had successfully done it again. Now I eased my facial muscles into what I hoped was a smile of, of, well, of complicity. After all we were in the same boat and had to pull in the same direction. This I thought was certain, though as I stared into the face of my old school chum, I had to keep a snarl from my voice. I met innuendo with innuendo.

  ‘ “Perhaps, there are other and more pertinent rumours circulating,” I stated, as if I was privy to such rumours, though as a new chum, I was denied the corridors of power; but then I had other contacts. “It seems,” I stated, “there is the matter of a lack of timing. If the Government hadn’t acquiesced in that steep rise in interest ...”

  ‘He interrupted me with a dry laugh, almost a cough, and said with an air of superior detachment: “We are talking about different things, old chap. You see, I’m covered by my position. Any accusation is a political attack, and as for the interest hike, that is not your concern.” Thus, having put me in my place, he swung back to the forthcoming campaign. “You only have to remember the farm subsidy and the adjustment against the rate of inflation which naturally has calculated in it any interest rises. Push that down their ear holes. Don’t deviate one iota from it and you’ll get the white vote, and as for the black vote ...”

  ‘That was where your detective came in, of course. Then, after arranging for funds to be forwarded to me, he pressed my hand, offered me the certain luck of the draw, then showed me the door.

  ‘I faithfully followed his advice before I discovered that it was completely worthless. My opponent not only crushed me with a huge majority, but at one time I was in danger of losing my deposit. I attributed this defeat not only to the disastrous economic climate and the saddling of me with an Aboriginal bodyguard which drew prejudice towards me (I was seen as soft on the Abos and therefore against the rural interests), but also to the abysmal scheming of the PM and his failure to come to my rescue when the campaign took on a personal tone and I was reeling under attack from all sides.

  ‘I became a witness to how a victim is set up in this great country of ours. Only Jackamara stood by me. He said that the local blacks were 100 per cent behind me, but demanded a statement on land rights. Not bloody likely! I hummed and hawed and lost even that base. My opponent, a wealthy landowner who had dismissed his black employees when he had to pay them a decent wage, pointed the finger of scorn at me. He became the hero of the piece as he laughingly contrasted conditions on a clapped-out station which ha
d been passed over to the blacks with the thriving nature of his own properties.

  ‘ “Yes,” he declared, “I admit I have made a somewhat comfortable living from my land ... but this has come through hard work,” he shouted out at the church fetes and sheep sales. “And what I have done, they could do,” he yelled in a great shout which echoed in the greedy hearts of all those farmers struggling as much as the blacks were struggling to make a success of their farms.

  ‘Evading the issue, I flung what I considered the reality of the farm subsidy, cents against dollars, which he adroitly turned against me as a hidden means of keeping off the market the property on which the blacks were trying to scrape out a living. He ignored the farm subsidy and concentrated on the sudden rise in beef prices. His posters fashioned like hundreddollar notes flashed his complaisant face as they screamed: “MONEY COMES FROM LAND WELL WORKED AND MANAGED.”

  ‘If only they had stopped and thought, but in the town pubs, his agents shouted drinks all round while they trumpeted: “Well, he knows what he’s talking about.” Drunken heads would nod into their drinks and soon this man, seen as one of them, was acclaimed with a frenzy which increased by the hour. Who needed a subsidy when beef prices remained steady at the new high? Market forces were triumphant!

  ‘My opponent achieved wellnigh divine status when the Brisbane newspapers exposed certain dealings. Now it was country against city, and his victory was assured. My own past, though not my identification with the city, remained all but buried. I found myself at the head of a small minority on the side of accountability in politics. One evening, towards the end of the campaign, I went into the pub in a small town with Jackamara by my side. It was the usual crowd, good-natured in grog, and they even allowed me time to say a few words from the band platform. As I knew the town was dirt poor, I began speaking on the farm subsidy and how it rose in relation to the official inflation figures. This, I declared, would help the weaker rural sectors in which I unfortunately included the Aborigines.

  ‘ “Fuck ’em, they get too much already,” someone shouted.

  ‘ “This is untrue,” I unwisely shouted back. “I have seen how these people live, and by my side is one who can tell you about the third-world conditions.”

  ‘This was too much for the men to take. I had unwisely settled on a taboo topic. A glass whizzed by my ear and splattered on the wall behind me. Others followed and I hit the deck. I huddled there fearful as a hail of missiles flashed over me and beer splashed down. Desperately I called for Jackamara, and then other missiles came from the reverse direction. There was a shout of “Get the buggers” and the bar became filled with large black bodies and fists. Jackamara had enlisted the blacks from the segregated black bar to come to my rescue. A running battle ensured huge headlines detailing a “Race Riot”. With a bruised face as dark as those of my allies, I saw myself going down to defeat. It was then that I knew that I had been set up: I would never become the Minister of Aboriginal Affairs!

  ‘This became clearer in the final hours of the campaign. My election committee, which at the beginning had been very accommodating, now refused to meet and consider my complaints, or even to plan an alternative strategy. I pressed them to honour their pledges, only to find that there was a serious shortage of funds and rumours that certain moneys had been diverted to buy the black vote. It was then I tried to get in touch with the PM. He was unavailable. At the beginning of my campaign, he had promised to make a whirlwind tour of my electorate, but since then not a single word from him. In desperation, I threatened to go to the media and even tried to plant a few stories which might embarrass, but not harm the election prospects of the party. In return certain newspapers attacked me. It was said that I had sent a truckload of grog to an Aboriginal settlement. Under cover of glib journalese, daggers of wounding allusion slashed out. To the party, I was a lame duck. Real or imaginary polls now revealed that my party would be returned to power; but each and every poll showed that my seemingly safe seat was not only in doubt, but lost owing to my ineptitude. I sat fuming as I crashed to defeat. My only apparent friend at the time was my minder, Detective Inspector Watson Holmes Jackamara, but even he had proved a liability. He, after all, was a blackfellow.

  ‘Well, now I have detailed the first period of acquaintance with that policeman. I doubt that he was privy to the plot; but the sight of him beside me on each and every occasion was an element in my downfall. I must admit I breathed a sigh of relief when his job was over and he returned to Brisbane. It was then, that determined to bare all, I rushed to Brisbane where the PM was holding a victory rally. To my consternation, I received an appointment without delay.

  ‘ “My dear, dear chap,” he exclaimed, coming to me with his hand outstretched. I should have ignored the touch of that Judas, but beggars can’t be choosers, and after all he was the PM. “My dear, dear chap,” he repeated, pumping my hand once, then letting it fall like one of my how-to-vote cards. “I’m so sorry, so very sorry, but you would drag in extraneous issues, such as land rights. What on earth made you come down so heavily on the side of the Aborigines! Why, it threatens our whole policy on that question. Upon my word, I thought that you had more sense. Still, I never would have believed it. There was a swing against us all over the country and but for another reversal of coalitions we would be sitting on the Opposition benches. Well, well, I never would have believed it,” he said shaking his head. It rankled that my opponent was now a member of his cabinet.

  ‘ “Don’t give me any of that bullshit,” I interrupted him coarsely. “And whose bright idea was that to give me the only Aboriginal detective as a bodyguard?” I shouted, banging my fist down on his ornate desk and making the papers jump. “I was set up like a dummy, don’t deny it!”

  ‘ “Policy, policy,” he murmured. “After all, you had to have credibility with the substantial black vote.”

  ‘I shook in fury, clenching and unclenching my fists. In an attempt to pacify me, he offered me a chair, thank God, not a seat, then poured me a drink. I downed the glass in a single gulp before grinding out: “All you bastards are laughing at my expense. Well, we’ll see who has the last laugh. I’ll expose you for what you are. The whole country’ll know of it. We’ll see; we’ll see. In fact with this reversal of coalition tactic, there might be a case to be brought before the Electoral Commission. Once, yes; but twice?”

  ‘I broke off choking with rage and humiliation. The PM waited a moment, then said: “Please be quiet and listen to me. Please, please. I’ll let you in on what happened. We had no way of knowing, or of getting word to you. Strategy was planned and put into operation on a day-to-day basis. You’re new to the game and don't know how these things are settled ...”

  ‘My rage had fallen away and I let him continue. Quietly, he explained: “Your rival, he was proving too strong for us to contain. What could we do? It was by sheer chance that he went against you in the first place. All preliminary polls showed that the result would be close and that the deciding factor would be the black vote. So we used what we considered our trump card and brought in Detective Inspector Watson Holmes Jackamara. Well, we had never considered the amount of prejudice against Aborigines in the district. The farmers are frightened that their land may be alienated from them. So what could we do? Party comes first and your opponent was strong material, cabinet material, just what we needed. Everyone knows him. Very popular, indeed. Just a miscalculation. Sorry about that; but our country needs the strongest government in these somewhat difficult times. I am sure that you would have made a fine Minister of Aboriginal Affairs ...”

  ‘ “Christ,” I burst out. “Cut the twaddle, you aren’t in the house now. I don’t care what the country needs; I know what I need. I relied on you, and now thanks to you I’m finished. I’m overdrawn at the bank not by hundreds but by thousands, and at this very moment my creditors are about to pounce. They’ll skin me alive. I’ve barely got the price of a decent meal in my pocket and when my credit card is dishonoured, I’ll be d
ishonoured. Christ, can’t you see the fix I’m in?”

  ‘The PM was a good sort, perhaps. He draped an arm about my shoulders and said: “You had to get it off your chest and now let me say ... I’m prepared to offer compensation ...”